


Riding Crop

by kissing2cousins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angry Mrs. Hudson, Coffee Table - Freeform, Gen, Index Finger Typing, It's For a Case, Making a mess, Riding Crop, Tea, Wrestling, acting like children, fight, laughing, scuffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9866804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissing2cousins/pseuds/kissing2cousins
Summary: There was John, minding his own business, until Sherlock decided to experiment on him, for a case. Without permission. Git.





	

John was sitting, hunched over at his desk with a fresh tea on his right and his laptop open in front of him. He was working on his latest blog entry of Sherlock’s adventures, ‘Blind Buffalo and Blue Balloons’. It was a slow process; he had never mastered the art of typing with anything resembling speed. The index finger of each hand hovered as he searched for the correct letter before pressing firmly down.

There had been some pretty odd cases before, but this one had been outright ridiculous. Fortunately, the mystery had been strange enough to attract Sherlock’s attention. He chuckled as he remembered them standing in the horse paddock, examining the dismembered clown. Shaking his head slightly to clear the thought John set back to typing.

The doctor had just finished his third sentence when he felt a blinding white-hot pain streak between his shoulder blades. With a spasm, he jerked back from the desk, his chair scraping across the floor and his tea sloshing out of the cup. Launching to his feet, he spun round in the direction of the attack. Freezing in sheer shock, John found Sherlock Holmes, coat buttoned up, blue scarf tails tucked in, and riding crop in hand. A bloody riding crop!

“You bastard!” John snarled, as he lunged forward, fully intent on inflicting the same amount of pain on his insane friend in return.

Sherlock quickly back peddled, struggling to articulately sputter, “It’s for a case! I need to know how quick the bruise forms!” The riding crop lowered to his side as the detective’s left hand came up to ward his irate flatmate off as he cautiously backed away.

John didn’t care that it was for a case. He was going to explain to Sherlock in a very physical manor that there were very physical consequences to very socially unacceptable actions. He advanced on the man retreating for the stairs and just as those eyes widened with the recognition of his mistake, the soldier’s hands snapped out, gripping the coat’s lapels. Lifting, the smaller man raised the detective to the tips of his shoes, before hurling him to the floor.

Sherlock very unceremoniously slammed flat against the top of the long coffee table, his weight and the force more than enough to break it. John didn’t hesitate. As the table broke and Sherlock collapsed to the floor, wood debris, papers, pens, and dishes scattering, he stepped in and snatched the riding crop out of the detective’s suddenly lax fingers.

“John,” the detective groaned, as he sprawled out in an ungraceful heap. “We just replaced that.” His eyes were still closed as he ground out the words.

Once again, John didn’t care. Instead, his right arm raised, crop in hand, and he swung down, lashing the detective across the side. He watched in satisfaction, as Sherlock flinched. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t really hurt through all those layers of material so John swung again. This time he aimed a little lower, slashing the man hard across the outer side of his thigh, and the detective had to stifle a yelp.

On the third downswing, Sherlock’s eyes flashed open and he grabbed the crop. As his flatmate pulled, John released the weapon, not wanting to be pulled down with it. He probably should have been paying more attention, instead of letting his anger get the better of him because he really should have noticed the man’s long legs.

Since he hadn’t, John was taken entirely by surprise and he found himself falling, Sherlock’s legs twisting around his own. He managed to position an elbow so that when he fell, he landed on Sherlock with that pointy end protruding. It hurt, but it was worth hearing the detective’s pained exhalation near his ear.

His satisfaction only lasted a partial moment. Soon there was another sharp crack and the doctor felt pain blossoming across his backside. His mind blanked for a split second. Surely, Sherlock had not just spanked him with that bloody crop! Growling low in his throat, John levered himself up just enough to fling his right arm out, fingers grabbing at the thin leather rod.

The two of them fought over it like children in a playground over a toy. They rolled across the floor, this way and that, legs kicking and arms punching. Both vehemently refused to release the crop.

“You bloody git!” John huffed, as a particularly strong blow hit his ribs.

“It’s for a case!” Sherlock’s voice was strained, as he attempted to deflect a well aimed fist away from his face.

They continued wrestling in a heap on the floor, getting weak shots in as they struggled for dominance. The doctor could feel blood dripping off his chin from his lip and wasn’t quite sure when the other man had got that shot in but felt supreme satisfaction at seeing the redness around Sherlock’s left eye, which was already promising to grow into a wonderfully dark bruise.

John was pulling back for another good punch to the flatmate’s face when he heard a piercing shriek from the direction of the doorway. Both men instantly froze, only their eyes moving, as they both glanced upward.

Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips and the toe of her shoe was furiously tapping as she scowled down at them. “Both of you, separate!” She commanded in the plenary tone only mothers could wield. 

John and Sherlock immediately scuttled away from each other, that was until they felt the pull of the other man’s hand still gripping the riding crop. Neither one of them was willing to relinquish control of the weapon, so they glared at one another.

With a great huff of annoyance, Mrs. Hudson stepped into the room and marched to where they were still fighting. She snatched the crop from both of their grips and flexed it once before leaning forward to snap it over her knee. “I would expect something like this from you, Sherlock,” she patronized, waving one broken piece at the detective’s nose before she turned her menacing glare onto the doctor, “But not from you!”

They both cringed, eyes casting downward, as she continued her tongue-lashing. “You two are grown men and I come up here find you rolling around on the floor like five-year olds, unwilling to share a toy!” She emphasized this statement by tossing the broken tool to the ground between them. This gesture caused her then to notice something else.

“Oi! What the bloody hell have you done to my coffee table! I just replaced that!” Throwing her hands up in defeat she huffed out a frustrated breath, before commanding, “Clean up this mess! And you better be replacing that table yourselves this time, boys!” With this last edict, she stormed from the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Silence filled the room as both men glanced between the broken riding crop and door. Eventually, their eyes found each other. Sherlock’s lips compressed as their eyes locked and John felt muscles in his face twitching. Quite suddenly they were both laughing at the absurdity of the entire situation. 

It was a good thing they were both on the floor as they continued to laugh, tears beginning to leak from their eyes. Air was becoming a rare commodity, so they began to laugh in fits, stopping between to gasp in air, so as to fuel the next. Every time they glanced at one another it would set them off again and they both found themselves sprawled out, clutching at their stomachs, the broken weapon between them.

A long while later the majority of their laughter had faded, only small chuckles escaping and the tears finally stopped. Propping himself against the sofa, John pointed a finger at Sherlock, who had decided the door was the best place to lean. “Next time you decide to use a riding crop on me, I wont settle for fists. I’ll use my gun.”

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when we get together and plot. It's beautiful, chaotic and can be one hell of an entertaining challenge!


End file.
